Our Last Night Alive
by My Precious Laith
Summary: My name is Stan. I was eight when my parents left me, and when I went to live with my uncle. When Kyle and I went to live with our uncle. AU Style/Slash


**A/N: My Precious Laith here. This is my first **_**South Park**_** fanfiction, and it is SLASH. Don't like, don't read. It's almost all based on **_**Gardens of the Night**_**, an independent film written and directed by ****Damian Harris****. I just saw it and it was absolutely beautiful, so, with after a huge case of writer's block, I'm going to give this a try. The story and a bit of the dialogue are entirely ripped from the original movie.**

**RATED M FOR A REASON! Rated for prostitution, child molestation, homosexual relationships, rape, child pornography, drug use, etc. This isn't a lighthearted story! And if you're a Mr. Slave and/or Mr. Garrison fan, turn back now.**

**Summary:** At the age of nine, Stan Marsh's parents mysteriously gave him over to his uncle and never came back for him, leaving their youngest child behind with a complete stranger. And there he would stay; his only company the red-haired Kyle and Uncle Herbert and Mr. Slave. And his live goes completely downhill from there.

**Disclaimer: **_**Gardens of the Night **_**and **_**South Park**_** do not, unfortunately, belong to me.**

_Stan's POV_

This story doesn't claim to be an account of facts or events, but the inside story of a dark world where children are forced grow up too fast. This story isn't in the history books, nor has it been reported on the news, written about in the paper or even noted by the average pedestrian. If I were a professional, no doubt this story would start with facts about whores and scientific studies or something like that, and I'd connect it with my personal experiences and people would read my words with what I would hope would be interest. But I'm not writing a book; I'm not publishing my story for the world to see, so I suppose it doesn't matter. I don't even know why I started this way. It just the story of a whore, nothing more, nothing less. Well, I guess you could say "whores" since I am not the only person staring in this. Currently, I'm on my way to find him, and I hope he hasn't gotten there before I do. My friend, my love, the person who kept at my side even after everything. The boy that claims fate brought us together.

I guess that's a good way to start a story, with a disclaimer. I rambled a bit, didn't I. Oh well, I may be literate, but I'm no writer. I can't expect something fan-fucking-tastic. Reading this over again, I see that I'm writing this like I plan on someone reading it. Thinking that, my mind shows an image of my finished story in a crappy ninety-nine cent notebook, left on a bench where someone will stumble across it. Who knows, maybe that'll happen, but I digress.

I'm tired, now, and I'm waiting for sunrise so I can start walking again (always good to be careful at night), so I'm writing this by street light I'm sitting under. I originally got this notebook to keep track of where I was, but after a bit, I just…started writing. I dunno why. Now that I think about it, maybe I will leave it somewhere. But in every book, there's an opening, the start to the story. If that's what I'm gonna tell, it might as well start there.

It was one of the only days from my earlier years that I remember better than others. The sun shown down through my window as the alarm went off, scaring me out of sleep. I groaned, turning uncomfortably in the sheets. My eyes slit open as the beeping continued, ringing dangerously in my ear. With a yawn and a light sneeze, I was finally able to sit up, my fingers raking through my limp black hair as I began getting ready for school. Dad always left for work early, and mom and Shelly had been with my aunt in Denver for the past few days, so I was responsible for getting myself ready for another draining day at South Park Elementary.

After getting dressed and putting on my red poofball hat, I grabbed my backpack and walked out the front door, unintentionally getting my shoes wet by trudging through the snow. If mom were there, she'd yell at me for skipping breakfast. It was an average morning in South Park. My eyes, still heavy from sleep, roamed the surroundings, my fingers wandering to lightly touch and grasp the bushes of bushes along the sidewalk that prickled lightly against my skin, and I liked the cool feeling it gave me. The air was still, chilly from the recent snowfall yet warmed by the sun above my head, a perfect spring morning. I was lost in thought, so much so that I didn't notice a man, dressed in leather, entering the passenger side of a rusty old car on my right. If I didn't see that, it came to no surprise that I didn't see the other man stumbling across the lawn, looking as if he were searching for something. He noticed me before the leather man did.

"Hey there," the man in green chirped at me, frightening me out of my stupor. As he approached me, I got a better look at him. He was balding on the top of his scalp, perhaps in his late fifties, and the distinct smell of cheap beer seemed to form around him like a swarm of bees to honey. I remembered that smell from dad. "Have you seen a hand puppet around here? Stripy hat and a purple shirt? He calls himself Mr. Hat?"

I shook my head, confused as to why this guy was asking me if I'd seen a talking, living puppet. "No..."

His hopeful look faltered and he sighed, meeting the glance of the man sitting nonchalantly in the car next to us. When I too looked at him, I was frightened with the realization that he was looking at, not the bald man, but me.

"That's odd," the balding man continued, "I distinctly remember a small dog dragging him off somewhere."

An old trick, but one that did manage to catch my attention. "That sounds like my dog," I exclaimed, unable to see anything wrong with the situation, and, just like that, I was hooked, with a low percentage of escape.

"That does? Would you mind if we went to see your dog? I need to find Mr. Hat, it's very urgent."

Cautiously, my eyes moved from the bald man to the one sitting in the car, taking a quick puff of his cigarette. Both of their eyes were on me, but I couldn't read the atmosphere at all. I was too young.

"Okay."

I don't remember why I led him to my backyard, but I did. When we got to my backyard, Sparky was still lying in the sun, sleeping in peace even as I bent down and rubbed his head. The bald man copied my actions, patting Sparky on the flank.

"What's his name?" he asked, voice too cheerful.

"Sparky."

His lips pulled back into a grin and I watched as his wrinkles stretched. It was gross. "What a great name for a dog. But it seems that he doesn't have Mr. Hat. Darn it, I'm gonna have to keep looking. I wonder where he could have gone." He scratched his head and looked from side to side. "Ah well, I keep looking after I've had some lunch."

He'd given up way too quickly.

Even at the age of nine, I knew that there must be something wrong with this man if he thought that puppets could talk. I was worried, and I made my way outside of the gate, the man in green following close behind.

"So are you going to school, um…" he paused, but continued forward, looming over my shoulder. I could hear him chuckle. "Oh, forgive me, but I seem to have not introduced myself. My name is Herbert, but you can call me Mr. Garrison. What's yours?"

I stopped walking. So did he. Turning, I looked up at him without the uneasiness I know now that I should have had. "Stan."

We were back to our original meeting place now, the man in leather still sitting calmly in his seat of the car while surveying the scene. Mr. Garrison smiled. "Well Stan, are you going to school? It's a tuesday, so you must have school."

A small nod. "Uh huh."

"Well," Garrison hesitated, giving the watch on his left wrist a quick look. "It seems that I'm making you late. You go to South Park Elementary, right? I used to work there. Do you need a ride? I could get you there lickety-split."

It is at this point that I should have stopped and thought, questioned the motives this man I had met only a few minutes ago had to drive me to school. I should have made a run for it, stopped this seemingly simple conversation and bailed before I would do anything I could regret in the future. But, when you're young and naïve, you don't stop and think. You can't understand the dangers that lay in the world outside of your own. So I nodded.

"Okay."

That single word brought a surge of delight to Garrison's eyes, and his smile grew. "Well then," he said, making his way to the beat-up vehicle and opening the back door, "we'd better get a move on or else you'll be late to your first class, and we can't have that, can we?"

It was strange, but the warmth that came from this man's smile alone brought about a welcoming presence. He wasn't necessarily like all those scary men my teachers had warned me about. He was a kind, normal-looking man; too kind and normal-looking to do any harm to me. So, without a second thought, I stepped forward and hopped into the backseat, feeling my clothing rub painfully against the fake rawhide interior. Mr. Garrison closed the door behind me, and jogged up to the driver seat, buckling himself in and taking off down the road.

Mr. Garrison looked back at me through the rearview mirror. "Stan, this is Mr. Slave. Mr. Slave and I both work with your father, you know."

This was news to me. While I'd never seen my father, a Geologist, at work, I had to wonder what kind of people he worked with if these two worked with him. "You're Geologists, too?"

It surprised me when Mr. Garrison didn't reply, but the other, Mr. Slave, did. "Hell yeah," he said, voice high-pitched and containing a lisp. "You're dad's one fucking hell of a good Geologist." The casual use of the word "fucking" was new to me as well, and it made me squirm slightly in discomfort.

We were now passing the stretch of the road that I usually went down for school, and as I looked out the window, I was surprised when Mr. Garrison made a sharp turn left, straying from my customary path. He, however, noticed my instant change in expression.

"Don't worry, Stan, this is only a short cut I used to take when I taught at South Park Elementary. We'll be there in no time."

Looking back on this memory, I could very well kick myself at my lack of understanding. I didn't argue nor did I even fear this new route. For some unknown reason, I trusted Mr. Garrison and Mr. Slave.

However, this was no lie. When we reached the school, Mr. Garrison hit the brakes and turned back in his seat to smile back at me.

"Have a good time at school, Stanley. It was nice meeting you."

Without so much as a smile back, I swiftly opened the car door and ran toward the building, not even bothering to wave.

It was an average day at school, just like all the others in the small town. Ms. Choksondik was in a foul mood, perhaps because of her recent falling out with her boyfriend, Mr. Macky, the school's counselor, so schoolwork was harsh. Recess was a short as it usually was, our momentary freedom crushed by another few hours within the school system, and I admired the sophisticated Wendy Testiburger from afar. Nothing new; it was always the same.

Walking home, however, was a different story.

I parted ways with Clyde and Craig shortly after leaving school grounds, and was left on my own as I made my way uphill to my street. The sun that had been bright only a few hours ago was now hidden by gloomy clouds that promised nothing but another sunless day. My mind was still wrapped in the topic of the recent Indiana Jones movie, courtesy of Craig; so much so that I failed to notice an eerily familiar car emerging from behind me. I did, nevertheless, make out the form of a Mr. Herbert Garrison from the driver's seat. Mr. Slave was still in the passenger seat, and rolled down his window so that I could hear Garrison.

"Stanley," he began as the car came to a complete stop. I, too, halted mid step. "Thank goodness we found you! You need to come with us right away!"

I was confused by the sharpness in his voice and the calmness present in Mr. Slave's face. Such contrast.

"Why? What's going on?"

He didn't answer at first, but stepped out of his vehicle and walked straight up to me. "Get in the car and I'll explain everything!" He didn't allow another word from me as he opened the door and pushed me toward it slightly by a hand on my back.

I didn't object, but an uneasy feeling did spark the second I sat down and we sped off down the street. I passed my house, the familiar picture forever imbedded into my mind as we went passed.

That was the last time I saw my home in South Park.

**I may upload a better version tomorrow (It's almost midnight).**

**Understand now that I really **_**really **_**hate Mr. Garrison and Mr. Slave. Plus, with the whole account of Garrison's child molestation in **_**Cartman Joins NAMBLA**_**, I made them the kidnappers. Yes.**

**Reviews give me more joy than anything. Even more than cookies.**

**EDIT: Edits, how I love them. Because I have a few but amazingly awesome commenters and subscribers, I decided to continue the story. I love you all, and thank you!**


End file.
